I think
by Lady Starburst
Summary: She thinks it's impossible to get over something that never was. He thinks there's nothing left. A few years later, Sasuke and Sakura pick up where they left off. Sort of.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I, Terry, fully admit to being a pretentious asshole bent on hijacking original characters (who in no way belong to me) to star in angst-ridden, indulgent, stylized works of fanfiction. Which, incidentally, are of no benefit to anybody, at any time, anywhere. Seriously, you can't even wipe your ass with them unless you'd like to go through the trouble of printing them out. I also concede that all self-deprecation is to be taken with a grain of salt because I simply cannot take _myself _as seriously as I take these silly little stories. (This one which I churned out while I _should_ have be writing my Sociology paper). Read on at your own discretion.

…

**I think**

…

Sometimes, when it got too exhausting to wish for his return, she let herself think that maybe he was never coming back, that she would never see him again. She would try to really believe it, move on a little bit, go on a date or two. It lulled her in a strange way, gave some sort of abstract permission to just _live _for a little while, for _herself_.

But always, her inherent optimism, the completely unfounded, unshakeable _faith _she has in him, would tell her otherwise. Of course they would see each other again, if _only_ for a proper goodbye. The idea was bittersweet; painful on her worst days, but oh how she longed for him.

Now he _is_ in front of her, flesh and blood, living and breathing. And she doesn't know whether to be elated or disappointed.

They're trapped together in a claustrophobic room, warily regarding one another after six years of separation. A space of time simultaneously long and short for how much and just how little she's changed. She's taller, she has curves, she's acquired substantial skills, she's matured. She's accumulated some pretty impressive issues and picked up Naruto's affinity for profanity.

She's also stagnant; she hasn't really changed at all. She's not the sum of her parts, but really _just_ the strongest impulse of her being and what drives her. It still always manages to come back to _him_, the end all and be all in matters of her personal happiness, or more specifically, the lack thereof.

She's always been love's pathetic fool, and he's been… what? She doesn't know what he's been, or where he's been, or anything outside of what little he's unwittingly shown her. And that was when they were younger, before the existence of all these years between them.

He's still dizzying to look at; dark, pale, slender, and sculpted. Beautiful. His countenance is the same impassive, bored arrangement of perfect features. His eyes are still both cold and hot, thickly lashed, penetrating. His walls are intact. She hates those stupid walls.

They are not _really_ trapped; she can leave at any time and he can too, but they remain across from each other, silent and staring. She knows why she's here (sort of), but his presence is inexplicable. His eyes are on her, expectantly maybe? Is he waiting for her reaction to this accidental meeting, to him? Does he expect her to throw herself at him? (She wants to). Slap him silly? (She _really_ wants to).

Probably, he's waiting for her to speak; somebody should break the silence and it would be in keeping with their respective roles for her to be the one to do it. But they don't have roles anymore, or if they do, she doesn't know what they are.

She has to _think_, that much she is sure of. She can't rely on her feelings, the way she's always been so prone to do, because when it comes to him she can't trust them. So she considers the situation, the pros and cons, tries to be rational.

He left all those years ago, chose to chase after his own vendetta and betrayed their friendship. He left her unconscious on a bench. He fought with Naruto. Years passed; growth and change and stagnation. It all amounts to just the two of them in a hotel room, sitting on the floor.

They'd found each other accidentally; she was visiting friends in this unfamiliar place, and he was doing god knows what. Their rooms were next to each other by some act of fate, and a chance encounter in the hall followed. No words were uttered at that point, no emotional teary reunion; just mind-numbing shock, an open door and her need to walk through it.

She wouldn't have known what to say even if she'd had the wherewithal when they first spotted each other. _This _is truly an occasion that requires a profound opening statement, or at least some measure of thought behind whatever it is that winds up being said. There are so many words to choose from, but she has so little power to utter any.

He seemed to understand that when he saw her, and if he was surprised at her appearance, he gave little indication of it. A cool once over, half a nod, and then he just walked away. The same way he'd done before, but this time he let her follow.

That was apparently as far as he was willing to take things for his part. He'd left the door open for her to enter his room, but once they were safely inside he seated himself on the floor, leaned against the wall, and has been watching her ever since.

It's her move, clearly, but how the hell is she supposed to approach this? She still hasn't gotten over the shock, the strangeness of experiencing a long sought fantasy in real life. It's like lucid dreaming.

She collects her scattered thoughts, attempts to put them together in a coherent manner, tries to think. And something finally sticks.

In light of everything, it seems she'd be justified in hating him. Maybe she does; she knows that she at least resents him and perhaps that's healthy. Her devotion used to be so blind, but her awareness has changed that. She doesn't quite trust him, even though she thinks she might _need_ him. Which is pathetic. And it's all his fault, truly, because it's _him, _and everything's him, and it's always been his world. She just lives in it.

"I think," the silence is finally shattered, of course by her, "that I hate you."

If she was hoping to shake the surreal quality of this entire encounter, she's just blown it. Because Sakura isn't supposed to speak such words, and certainly not to _Sasuke_. It's out there now, though, and it's odd. She's vindicated and sorry, sitting outside of herself and waiting for a chain of events to unfold.

He's reacting the way he always reacts; by not reacting at all. His dark eyes flicker over her face, stoic expression unchanging. He doesn't respond, of course, and they're back to staring. She appreciates the anger peering from beneath his stupid, long eyelashes. It's been there for a long time, but she takes comfort in thinking that maybe some of it is for her. _Something_ for her.

"You're clearly not going to say anything until you find it absolutely necessary," she notes, inching a little closer. "I'd expect a pleasantry at least for an old friend, but it seems that even the bare minimum is too much for you. You probably don't even have the conviction to apologize."

"You," his expression shifts slightly into a mild scowl, "are still annoying."

Precious first words after years of silence ina deeper voice, but the tone is exactly how she remembers it. She thinks of the last time he expressed the sentiment and she scowls too, a little more darkly than _he_ will muster.

"And you're still an asshole," she returns.

He tilts his head, minutely, studies her. She thinks, in her attempt to interpret his steady perusal that he's arriving at the same conclusion that's just occurred to her. That they are behaving childishly. But then, so what? Weren't they children when they last met? Aren't they picking up where they left off?

Well no, not really. Because she certainly isn't telling him she loves him. She doesn't even know if she still does. She won't know either, because she refuses to consult her emotions. _Thinking_ - that's what needs to be happening here.

"I should probably kill you," she reasons, casting a glance over years gone by and his presence in them without being there. "It would probably free me the same way you expect to be freed."

She's officially disconnected, and none of this feels anywhere near real, and she doesn't care. She is pleased with herself for saying such things to him, but won't tell herself why. She smiles, at her words, at the situation, distantly as amused as she is upset.

He remains where he is, even as she draws closer in a manner she feels must look threatening.

"You are too weak," he replies, matter-of-factly.

She chews her bottom lip, considering this, "To actually attempt it, or to succeed in doing so?"

He grunts in place of a real reply, and keeps his eyes on her. Maybe because he thinks she might just try. Maybe because it's all he's been doing for the last twenty minutes or so.

A little closer, and she thinks she saw him stiffen, though she can't be sure.

She smiles again, "Would _you_ kill _me_?"

He says nothing and she shrugs.

"You'd probably just knock me out." She can't help but add, "Just like old times."

He won't respond to this either, and she sighs with frustration. The lack of affect is an old wound for her, his indifference to the whims of her temper, her feelings. She used to tell herself it was because he was so good at concealing, at hiding behind those obnoxiously thick walls. Of course he felt for her in his own way, he was her friend and he cared.

Now she doesn't think she can believe it. She was probably just being a naïve little girl. Well, that is exactly what she had been then, after all.

"Maybe you're psychotic," she muses over said lack of affect; she thinks she recalls reading somewhere about it being a sign of insanity.

Then she is reminded of her own position, "Says a lot about the person obsessed with the obsessive, doesn't it?"

He's just barely scowling again, "You couldn't cut it as _jounin_ so you became a therapist?"

That's absurdly insulting.

"Maybe I did."

"You've always been an idiot."

"Yeah," she stares at him and decides that she really _must_ hate him, "I have."

An agreement. What is this, like, _progress_? An impasse, perhaps. Maybe just all the juvenility out of their systems, and now they can talk seriously.

She tries again, "I think…"

"You've never," he cuts in, nastily.

Maybe not.

She laughs because this strange detachment, the suppressing of her feelings, is making him – this – entertaining. She was expecting something meaningful and here is the rude Sasuke she's been accustomed to, making snappish remarks.

She moves even closer and he's still, always still, her knees brush his and he doesn't flinch.

"I already hate you," she reminds him, or perhaps herself, "You don't have to try."

He stares at her coolly, his face motionless, but she leans towards him because there was a flash of something in his eyes. A flash of red, it could have been, or she just imagined it because she used to find it so scary. Maybe it's just the way they burn, as they always have, with that need for vengeance and all the bottled rage. Yes, they _are _burning as they watch her – burning but so damned cold. It strikes her as bizarre, inhuman even.

"Your eyes repulse me," she tells him because there is no need _now _to censor herself, "_You _repulse me."

Unmoving, he still observes her; long, thick, beautiful eyelashes outlining that angry glare and the strange, inexplicable ice in it. And she can't _really _be repulsed because he's so painfully attractive.

"If you were smart," she points at him, "You'd repulse _yourself_."

Finally, some movement. He grabs her wrists and holds them at her sides, and it's a testament to his clairvoyant reflexes; she's been entertaining the idea of touching him. Now _he's _touching _her _in a restraining manner, but she barely notices because his eyes have changed. A flicker of black – just his pupils dilating – and she stares hard, searching for something more.

Then she sees it. Just a look, like one she used to dream about and still does if she's honest. Just a moment, a memory, his gaze connected to hers in an achingly recognizable way. This still, cold and hot boy, or is he a man? Is she a girl or a woman? It doesn't matter. She thinks that she remembers and that he does too. That maybe the distance of the years isn't really so far. Or that they're helpless and he's out of her reach, just as he's always been. And it's familiar and it hurts.

Her breath is released, tentatively, "I know you."

Or she doesn't. Considering she can't _think _with her mind all jumbled like this, with her senses overly stimulated, and her emotions spinning in a whirlpool. She doesn't _know_ anything. Not why her pulse is racing – if it's fear or his body heat. Or if this scent of his she's close enough to inhale is truly as familiar as it seems. Or why she hates him enough to want to draw nearer. She thinks… she _tries _to.

"We _knew _each other once," she corrects herself wistfully, "Maybe we were even friends. Well, I know I was _your _friend… I can't speak for anybody but myself."

He glares at her, irritated, but still no answer.

"_You_ speak for yourself," she demands, suddenly. "Tell me why you're here. In this room with me, I mean. Why did you let me in, and why are you still sitting here?"

"I… owe you."

He might as well have punched her in the stomach; her reaction is just as visceral. She recoils, slightly, and she knows her eyes express exactly how much he's just, for the billionth time, hurt her. Of the countless differences between them, this is the big one; no stony, impenetrable gaze for her. Just truth. Around him especially, where she's always been vulnerable.

Of course, she isn't twelve years old anymore. The Sakura of that age was as reckless in her infatuations as any preteen girl can be expected to be. Always clinging to her crush, throwing herself at him with youthful zeal, pouting and whining when he was mean to her. Discretion and dignity came with age; she really has grown up as unchanging as her feelings might be.

She ignores her impulses towards sulking and crying, and focuses instead on how angry she is. Empowering, well-deserved anger that demands the source is held accountable.

"You really are a bastard," she snaps at him, "I don't know what the hell you're getting at, but you really can't expect me to believe a sense of _obligation _is keeping you here. Considering what happened last time we… we..."

She stops, unwilling to allude _directly _to the event that altered her so much, "Well, anyway, I know better. You don't give a shit about anything do you?"

He glowers, "You just said you _knew _me."

"Fine, you _care_," she says it spitefully, "Just not about the people who waste _their _time caring about you."

"Well then it's a good thing you're not one of them," he coolly observes.

"Oh come off it, you know I'm full of it." She shakes her head, pink hair flying about her face, "As if _I _could ever hate _you. _No matter how relentlessly you push me in that direction."

Was that a smirk? Just another nudge in the direction she refuses to go, it seems. But at least it was affect – a smile, if it could be called that, at her inability to despise him. Or probably she's just reaching. Most likely, he just smugly enjoys his attempts to change her feelings. It's a toss up, really, even the few clues he occasionally provides are open to interpretation. His true skills are of the cryptic nature.

"On the off chance that you're not a bastard," she thinks aloud, "you're a liar. And if you're a liar, you're also a coward who'd rather hurt me than admit to yourself that maybe you miss your friends and your home."

He narrows his eyes, and she's pleased in a manner that lacks any _real_ pleasure to note that he's angry. With her.

"That's why you're here with me, isn't it, Sasuke?" she pursues the matter, "It's because I'm familiar and nothing else is. Maybe it's that you know that I really _am_ your friend, maybe you appreciate the value of that."

He doesn't look at her, his face turns away and he answers softly, "I'm not a coward."

The pause that follows is contemplative; there are too many blows to absorb, too much pain to sort through with that last statement. If he cares, he holds the feeling in contempt. Because he sees her as unworthy of his consideration or he just can't deal with emotional attachments. Probably both and a million other reasons which make the truth too abhorrent to admit to.

If he doesn't care, then it's all for naught, and she's attacking stone with feathers. Her pining has been utterly hopeless, her feelings insignificant (he has a habit of making them that way, anyway), her memories counterfeit. It's bleak and dismal, and so is everything because she's here without any real purpose and when it all ends, he'll just disappear from her life once more. Maybe this time she'll get the goodbye she's been waiting for.

No, she hasn't been _waiting _for a goodbye; closure in all her futile expectations came in a considerably more optimistic package. But real life will not give her the happily ever after she craves, fuck, _he _never will. But maybe she can learn to live with it all if he ends this in a way that closes a door for good. As always, it's in his hands. And they are so emotionally clumsy. Or, rather, just careless because she is sure he knows how to handle with delicacy; he just doesn't bother.

"You don't feel anything," she breaks the silence once more, and again it's bitter.

It hurts too much, all of it, and she is at once genuinely sorry that she had to see him again, "I really _should_ hate you. I wish I did."

She feels his gaze on her, his hands _still _holding her wrists, certainly for lack of anywhere else to put them.

"What do you want from me?" he asks, clinically, like a scientist conducting an experiment.

"You can't give me what I want," she explodes, pulling away, "You can't _give… _you won't even _take_."

No response but more silence. The stupid, unfeeling, asshole! She'd smack him if he wasn't so determined to hold onto her wrists until the circulation cuts off.

"Do you miss me?" Eyes snap back to his glacial gaze as she demands an answer, "Do you ever think of me _at all_?"

No, no he doesn't think of her. Not like she thinks of him. Not with the same bittersweet mixture of love and hate, passion and weakness, yearning and suppressing. Not with such steadfast loyalty to _the one_ source of every emotion her very being feels most strongly. Of course not; she is annoying to him and so many things change but feelings can't. Not for people who don't let them grow and adapt and just… be felt.

There _is _something in his eyes, some expression as he absorbs her questions, but it's so guarded and elusive she can't trust it. Her imagination is too kind to her.

_She _feels, too much, and thinks. Since feeling is so hard when he's right in front of her, since it's dangerous, she thinks instead. Her mind gropes for reasons, rational, and anything, really, to justify what's taking place.

And then she stops. Because his mouth is suddenly pressed against hers but she doesn't remember moving her head.

TBC…

**A/N: **It's a three-parter, kiddies. Because I have just _that _much melodrama stored up for jam.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thanks to those who reviewed. Here's a shift in the mood…

…

She does _not_ remember moving her head. Did _he _move his? It can't be, but he's not pulling away, lips warm and so soft it's impossible. How can anything about him be _soft_? This can't be happening, they _can't _be kissing in this careful, chaste way, touching and holding back as though any sudden movement would shatter the illusion. He _can't be_ caressing her this gently with his mouth even as his hands harshly bruise her wrists.

He pushes so she pushes back and, before she can process it, the same tongue that has hurt her _so_ many times is exploring her mouth. She sighs, kisses back, lets herself feel that he is solid, real, and _here. _In actual existence, and not just her untouchable thoughts. It really _is_ happening and she grows confident in her perusal of him now that it's clear he is tangible, that he won't just evaporate into thin air.

She feels… angry. At him for going away, for coming back, for _still _exercising that power over her and because she likes it. She could kill him for doing this _now _and not when she threw herself at his mercy, begging him to stay or to take her with him. The years… those damned years of waiting and hoping, regretting, growing stronger and harder, moving on but not quite letting go.

And here they are now, eighteen, desperate, sighing. He's still beautiful and cold, but now he's warm too. His mouth is urgent, and her wrists are black and blue, and he's just… _clinging _to her. She tastes salt and only _then _notices the tears; how long has she been crying?

She jerks away and he allows it, doesn't pursue her, but still won't ease his grip. Glaring, inches away from his face, Sakura thinks of her tears for him and great lakes of the world. There has to be at least an equivalency there.

She's aware that she is shaking, meeting his eyes again, most honestly because this kiss she's been waiting for has affected her _that _much. But she tells herself that her anger is responsible because she'd rather not give him any more power.

He looks back at her seriously, and even though he hardly shows it she can tell he's upset.

"Why did you do that?" her voice comes out accusing and snappish because she's concentrating on how much she hates him without actually hating him at all.

No, she just hates the side effects and loves the drug. Still loves the idiot, after everything. Even now. Especially now. She thinks… she really should just kill him. A woman scorned _this_ much is entitled and the fury _is_ still there. But all she can do is glare and tremble, and try to recover. If she was overly-stimulated before, now she's about to crash. The only parts of her body she can't feel acutely are her wrists, numb from his grip. The rest of her is singing; she's all adrenaline.

Sasuke speaks finally, completely avoiding the question, "Itachi is dead."

Or maybe that's his answer.

"Oh," she softens, "When?"

"Three years ago," he finally releases her.

She rubs her sore wrists, and watches his hands warily as they move towards her again. One of them lands on her cheek, and he collects her tears with all the ceremony of mopping a floor. He performs the action without tenderness or affection, but she lets herself be comforted by it anyway. It's reminiscent of all the times he used to casually look after her without making a big deal of it, as if it was simply business as usual.

Yeah, he really had been her friend, hadn't he?

"I didn't kill him," he says, wiping wet fingertips on his pants.

She studies him and feels herself crying all over again, or maybe she hasn't even stopped. She's only certain now that it was all a stupid waste. What he gave up and left behind for a life goal he will never achieve. He's lost _everything_ now. He has nothing.

He has _her. _Not that it was ever enough for him before, or now, or if it means anything at all. But she knows, in her heart, she will always belong to him. Which is frightening.

"You're still angry," she observes, "and you can't come home."

"It's too late," his tone is so very close to emotionless, but this time he can't quite make it.

She's glad for it, takes any evidence of his humanity that she can possibly get from him. She has to draw it out, hold onto it, keep it safe. She has to help him, even if he's beyond it. She has to try.

"I think…" she purses her lips, "I think I should ask you what you've been doing all these years, but I won't. I just -,"

She sighs, heavily. Her feelings have slowly filtered their way into thoughts that were supposed to be entirely rational. It's no use fighting anymore, not when it comes to him, and not when there's nothing else to be said. She can't be afraid, because what more can he do to hurt her? Her heart has been broken for years, why worry about spreading the damage?

"I told you I loved you when you left the first time, and it couldn't stop you." She smiles through her tears, maybe a little bitterly, but still as sweetly as she inherently is, "Now that there's nothing to stop you from doing that I can determine, I still do. You probably already know that, maybe you don't care, but it is what it is and I can't change it."

He looks away again, resting his chin on folded hands as he sighs with what sounds a lot like frustration, "You're such an idiot, Sakura."

"Yeah well," she manages to smirk in spite of everything, "you too."

"I can't go back, you know," he glares at her.

"I don't want you to be alone anymore," she replies, ignoring him.

"After everything I've done-,"

"I still love you."

"Because you're a fool."

He stands up suddenly, strides past her seated form to jerk the door open, and tilts his head slightly to indicate that she should leave.

"Goodbye."

She doesn't move, "No."

He scowls and she can see the wheels turning in his head. Probably he's seriously contemplating forcibly removing her, which in spite of marked improvement in her skills and strength, Sakura is sure he could do easily.

He doesn't; shrugs with one shoulder, and leaves the room himself. And she thinks, as she pushes herself off the ground to go after him that she really might just have to kill him after all.

"Stop it," she snaps, catching him in the hall, "Stop running and for once in your life, be a grown up."

Then, grabbing hold of his hand, she pulls him to her with strength that surprises him; he can't stop his eyes from widening ever so slightly. Her arms find their way around his waist and she buries her face in his shoulder, holds him against her.

"This time, I'm _not_ going to let you get away."

He holds still for a long moment, and she can hear his jaw clenching until he folds, the fight leaving him. His face winds up buried somewhere in her hair and he says her name in a sigh of exasperation and resignation.

She moves to his side, picking up his hand again to ensure he doesn't run off and because she's unwilling to stop touching him. She leads him this time into _her_ room, and they sit on the bed.

"I don't know where you're going Sasuke," she laces their fingers together, admiring the way her flushed pink skin looks against his alabaster. "But if you stay with me… you have somebody _here_ who loves you and who wants to make you happy. Maybe it's impossible, but there can't be anything else out there now."

"I don't understand you," he says, irritably. "Why do you do this to yourself? You know I can't…"

He won't complete the thought, and he won't move, and she can feel how tense he is.

He _can _love her in spite of himself, she thinks, even though she's aware there's a very good chance she's wrong. But she's unfailingly optimistic, always has been, and even if it makes her foolish, it keeps her strong. Her father used to always say that her most natural state was joy, and when there was none to be found, she had to go looking for it.

She remembered the words at his funeral, and had made herself smile. Because he was right; happiness is in her nature, engrained in her genetic code, which made Sasuke's absence and her misery so strange and unnatural to her. She couldn't embrace despondent feelings like _he _so easily did. Her heart needs to believe in love, faith and happy endings. Maybe that's why he's stayed with her all this time, why she couldn't accept the finality of his decisions and betrayal.

"I _do _this to myself," she tells him softly, "Because if I couldn't hope, even a little, I wouldn't know how to be."

He says nothing at that, but he seems to lean into her a little more and she smiles faintly, resting her head against his shoulder.

"Why did you kiss me?"

"I don't know," he admits, "I'm sorry."

She sighs, placing her free hand on his arm, "Don't be."

"For everything," he clarifies.

"I know," she pulls away slightly to study him.

His dark, raging eyes, silent countenance, flawless white skin. Beauty in an achingly tragic way like a fallen angel in a painting, just looking at him is cathartic. She feels… so damned sad. But she can't cry again; she's done too much of that already when he was gone, she shouldn't have to while he's actually _here._

"I don't care about anything anymore," she says, ashamed to hear her voice breaking, "It doesn't matter if you come home, or run to the edge of the earth. I just want to be with you, wherever you are."

It's so fucking ridiculous. She has a life, friends, people who need her, a place in this world, and she's once again willing to discard it for the person who doesn't. She knows it's pathetic, she knew it when she offered before, but as rational and clever as her mind is, it's her heart that rules her. And he rules her heart.

"Listen to me Sakura," his voice is even, eyes hard, "I am not the person to be your happiness. Don't… don't do this."

"I'm sorry," she pushes dark hair away from his face, letting her fingers rest on a faint scar at his temple that wasn't there six years ago. "But I can't help it."

"I can't let you come with me."

She places her other hand on his cheek and moves to rest her forehead against his, "Then come home."

"I can't."

"You won't," so close to his eyes, their lashes almost mesh together, "But you can and I think a part of you wants to."

"Sakura-,"

"You asked me before what I wanted from you," she interrupts him, "I want you to be happy. And if you can't do that, and if you don't think you can be my happiness, let _me_ be yours."

"I won't take -,"

"Take it," again he's cut off, "Take everything. I have my fair share of love in my life. So many people care about me, I'm overwhelmed. You don't have to give me anything in return, if you have nothing left; my heart's big enough for the both of us."

She smiles at this. After all, her dad had told her as much.

And Sasuke? Well, he has never really been much for words, but his hands find her waist, and he sighs deeply as he stares back at her.

"You really do annoy the hell out of me."

"I know," she beams at him, "but you missed me anyway."

He doesn't respond to this, not verbally anyway; he's too busy kissing her again. She thinks… nothing. Because she's too busy feeling, and loving, and there is no room for thoughts or rationality. Because she should still be angry with him, and she should hate him, and maybe she should have killed him a long time ago.

Or maybe _this _is right, letting him push her down into the mattress, and helping him remove her clothes because there is no way he could figure them out himself. Because it _feels _right, his skin against hers, his arms around her, his lips on her neck. Even if he's more passionate than skilled, and they're more awkward than graceful, and neither of them have done this before. Even if he doesn't love her, or if he does, or whatever the hell it is he feels or doesn't feel.

It's right because in her heart it's always been him, and she loves him in spite of herself, and no matter what he says, his home will always be where she is.

_TBC…_

**A/N: **Part three, the epilogue, is in Sasuke's POV. And that bastard just hates me inside of his head, but we'll get along, I think. Heh.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **This is my formal apology to all you wonderful folks who were expecting a lemon here. (clears throat) I'm sorry. The end of last chapter is pretty much as graphic as it will get, and the rating was mostly for language. (Can't be too fucking careful these days, you know). As far as sex goes, I'm more of a "vague description and get the hell out!" kind of gal. (Well, you know, as far as _writing _about sex goes). And you all should be relieved by that too; I have a warped sense of humor about these things.

…

He is on the brink of waking when it occurs to him that he's done something wrong. It's an abstract notion still, as his mind adjusts to the situation (first the smell of her hair, then the warmth of her skin against his), but it bears some resemblance to the all-around, general guilt he always carries. Though, there is something distinctly different about it in that it's an intellectual sort of guilt; he knows that he's done something wrong, but can't make himself _feel _that way.

Even so, he thinks, sitting up slowly to avoid disturbing her, this certainly isn't _right. _He knew it when he kissed her the first time, the second, when he _initiated _everything by letting her come into his room in the first place.

It's still hard to say why he let her back into his life, and in such a significant way; he's too out of touch with his feelings to actually identify what they _mean _half the time. Tirelessly and from an early age, repressing everything that wasn't centered in vengeance has made him emotionally inept. Not that he's ever had much use for emotions outside of his anger, anyway.

Regardless of how this happened, or why she's here, he knows this can't be allowed. He really can't go home, the failure that he is. He had one goal in mind when he betrayed them all in the first place, and he wasn't even able to accomplish it. He couldn't avenge his family, will never be able to, and like Sakura can't function without hope, he doesn't know what the hell he's supposed to be without his vendetta.

On the other side, he absolutely can't let her come with him, leaving her life behind. _He _left his life behind and it worked out really fucking well. She doesn't understand the enormity of removing yourself from the only people in the world who care about you, but the situation should shed some light on it, at least. Look at how desperate he was to grab hold of a piece of his past, and she'd let him take her too, _gave _willingly.

He knows his absence has hurt her, and he is truly sorry for it. He knows when he leaves again she'll be devastated, but she's never been able to see the big picture the way he does. She'll be okay eventually because like she told him, there is love for her outside of him, and… is there even love _inside _of him at _all_? For her? He honestly can't answer that question, avoids it. Because it's a stupid, meaningless question anyway.

He cares for her enough to leave her, that's what matters. He wishes he'd had the self-control to remove himself from the situation before the events of last night, but it's too late to change that now. It will probably make it harder for her to let go of him, but then, maybe she can see it as closure. A proper goodbye, or whatever. She's older now, wiser, he can give her credit for being stronger too. He's noticed.

There is resolve in his movements as he easily slides out of the bed and collects his clothes from where they've been discarded. He doesn't dwell on anything when he's made his mind up, never has, and he only takes the time to methodically redress before he heads for the door.

And then he stops. Involuntarily turns, just for one last look, because… he purses his lips. Because maybe this time _he _needs to say goodbye too. It's different now, from the last time he left. There is no sense of urgency driving him away, no Itachi waiting in the wings growing stronger while his brother crawls. And _he _is different because _she _is something to him now that he wasn't aware of before, blind in his ambitions.

He stares at her as she sleeps, slowly working his way across her delicate features. Hair is scattered about the pillow in a careless manner, soft and feminine, the exact shade of the pretty flush in her cheeks. A full, pink mouth parts slightly, smiling against pale but luminous skin that he can now say expertly is smooth to the touch. He recognizes for perhaps the first coherent time that she really _is_ beautiful. It was easy to ignore and overlook when they were kids, but she's come into it now, without any residual awkwardness.

And _she _loves _him, _which even when they were younger was incomprehensible. Well, he could understand it when it was just a crush, a preteen reaction to perceived desirability on a purely shallow level. But _love_? For a person who does nothing but hurt her, and makes her life miserable? She really is a masochist, he thinks. A stupid, irrational masochist who sees something in him worth clinging to for dear life.

Finally a feeling reaches him that he can understand; regret. He doesn't want to leave even though he knows he should, he _has _to. But the same outside force that caused his eyes to return to her is now moving his _feet_ in her direction. It wants him to have one last touch too, because looking just isn't enough.

His hand approaches her of its own volition, runs across her cheek, and he sighs. Something strange is happening here, and he doesn't understand it. He just can't shake the idea that… that she's _worth _staying for.

She really is the only thing he has left in the world; she's given herself to him without hesitation, and there is so much _value _in that gift. Because she's not just a silly, weak, distracting annoyance; she's a strong, fearless, beautiful girl who loves him selflessly. He knows enough now to realize you can't just casually _discard _a treasure like that. Just as she's no longer weak, he has learned too. But he can't stay either not when she's... waking up?

Her eyes flutter open while he's frozen in place, and she smiles when she sees him.

"I was watching you sleep last night," her voice is soft and raspy, "you weren't frowning."

"You should have been sleeping yourself," his own voice is reproachful.

"I couldn't," she replies, sitting up, "I thought I'd wake up and find you gone."

He frowns, considers asking her why, but he knows and doesn't need to hear it out loud. Besides, he _should _be gone right now.

She reads his mind, taking in his appearance with watchful leaf-colored eyes, "Going somewhere?"

He can't answer, but they've been doing this for awhile now, and his silence is its own response. He forces himself not to look away when her face falls because he shouldn't be allowed the easy route, this time. Not that anything about this is _easy._

"Could you maybe, before you make the decision to go again," she sighs, "just for once think of me?"

He does. That's the problem, and now he's thinking again about her eyes, her faith in him, her heart in his hands, and the way she feels in his arms and beneath him. He thinks of himself because he's everything to her and she doesn't even try to hide it. And he's trying to see how he must be in her eyes, because when he looks at himself all he can see are the things he hasn't done and can't do.

And maybe he sees her a little bit, because he does miss her, and he had to take a second look. That has to be evidence of something, but the more he thinks it over, the more confusing it becomes.

She reaches for his hand, entwines their fingers, and she's always just _reaching _for him when he's running away.

"Or don't think of me," she pulls him towards her, "don't think of anything. Just stay. Please don't go."

He doesn't know what he's feeling, but he doesn't want to go. And where the fuck is he going, anyway? He left once, lost it all, didn't gain a damn thing.

Her eyes are quietly determined as she holds onto his hand plaintively, and he can see _her _in them, past his own reflection. She _is_ worth staying for, he can't deny it, and maybe… damnit, maybe he… he _needs _her. Because without her, what is there? And _with _her… there is a chance.

She is so much more than just the crazy girl who loves him, he knows that, and now he knows why. Because she's redemption. She's… his future? He thinks that maybe she can be, and maybe he can find a new goal that doesn't revolve around destruction. Maybe he can pick up the pieces, and bring honor back to the Uchiha clan.

He knows that he is everything to her, but… how can he just _now_ be realizing that in her own way she's everything to _him _too. She's all that he has, and she's more. She's Sakura; the one person he can't shake, or forget, or even really move on from. She's brightness and warmth in a cold, dark world. She's devotion and loyalty. She's cleansing water and she washes over him, holds him, surrounds him. She waits for him, and she loves him.

The mattress bends slightly under his weight, as he places himself beside her. And he doesn't have to reach for her because she's already here, folding herself against his side, sighing against his shoulder. She's always there and he couldn't leave her even if he tried (which, incidentally, he just did).

He lets the stiffness leave his joints, feels himself relax, feels her hold him, and he is resigned to his fate. For once, he's tired of always fighting.

"I think," the silence is finally shattered, this time by him, "that I love you."

And she laughs at him, even as tears run down her cheeks that are, for once, not there because he hurt her. She places herself full on his lap, holds his face between her hands, and she's smiling such a perfect, beautiful smile he almost has to look away.

"Come home," she says it against his lips and he scowls as he pulls her against him because he knows that she's already perfectly aware that she has him right where she wants him.

"I _am _home."

Finally.

…

**A/N: **Thanks for reading everybody; I appreciate all the love and feedback, and for those who asked for more, this is it for _this _story. But I've developed a Sasuke/Sakura addiction, so you really haven't seen the last of me. (And here is where I sheepishly admit that both of my research papers are just not happening today because I'm _already_ working on another S/S fanfic. Academic probation, here I come! Attention Canadian Government: Your student loans have clearly been put to good use with me! Pat yourselves on the back!)


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